


Interminable

by louciferish



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Emo Band AU, Established Relationship, First Meetings, Jealous Yuri Plisetsky, Kissing, Light Angst, M/M, Mommy Issues, POV Yuri Plisetsky, Teenage Dirtbags, Touring, Van Days
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2021-01-26 07:04:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21370126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/louciferish/pseuds/louciferish
Summary: As he crosses the parking lot back to the van, Yuri wonders for what must be the tenth time if he’s made a mistake, not in trying for a music career, or in joining a band with Otabek, but maybeallof this—playing together and dating, basically living together half the year or more between studios and shitty van—maybe it’s too much. Maybe there’s a reason most bands that fuck split up.It’s just, this sure as hell isn’t what he imagined back when they started.
Relationships: Otabek Altin & Jean-Jacques Leroy, Otabek Altin/Yuri Plisetsky
Comments: 12
Kudos: 68
Collections: Otayuri Mini-Bang 2019





	Interminable

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a dirty-band-boys-in-a-van AU for you, just in time for your MCR reunion mood needs.
> 
> My artist was a badass and did a full mini-comic of one of the scenes! You can find that [on Jahgyong's Twitter](https://twitter.com/jahgyong/status/1193221026529923073).

Sunlight slanting through the back window of the van falls across Yuri’s eyes and sears the backs of his eyelids red and hot. He flops over on his side, out of the light, and huffs. He’s not going to be able to go back to sleep. Now that the sun’s dragged him from a dreamless black hole, he’s aware of the air inside the van—hot, stifling, and stale. He’s stripped down to a pair of purple leopard print boxer-briefs, and the blankets from last night are shoved up against the side of the van, but he’s still too warm, and his hair is tangled and snarled around the links of his choker from his thrashing in the night.

Yuri sits up, tugging at the strands around his neck, and doesn’t even wince when a few hairs pull out sharply at the root. The back of the van looks more like the nest of a wild creature than a human bed. Blankets and towels are piled in a chaos of fabrics, mixed in with discarded clothes. Yuri can’t tell which pile is meant to be some level of clean and which is dirty—they’ve been sleeping on both.

It probably smells like gym socks someone left in a wet sauna, but Yuri lives in it, so he’s desensitized. 

His eyes are crusty from sleep, and he can feel the beginnings of a headache brewing sharp in his temples, his addict brain already raising complaint about the lack of caffeine in his bloodstream. After a few minutes of fumbling through the piles next to his side of the air mattress, he finally locates the jeans he wore yesterday—they’re tangled in Otabek’s arms, where his boyfriend-slash-bandmate is curled up in the fetal position, still sleeping soundly.

Irritation jabs at Yuri’s chest, quick and light as the sting of a tattoo gun, and he tries to shove it aside. It’s not like Otabek deliberately chose to snuggle up with Yuri’s only pair of halfway clean skinnies. They both tend to toss and turn when they have to sleep in the van, especially now that the summer heat is baking this tin can on wheels.

Yuri briefly considers grabbing Otabek’s jeans in revenge, but he’s tried that before. They always droop off his narrow waist and thighs, then ride up his ankles like Suburban Mom capris. It’s not a flattering look, not even just to go on a coffee run. 

With a bit more rummaging, he uncovers a pair of faux-leather leggings he never wears, then steals one of Otabek’s dozens of plaid shirts, rolling the sleeves up to his elbows. He grabs some rolled socks and his boots and scoots up to the passenger seat of the van before escaping out the front door. He even resists his impulse to slam it behind him and wake Otabek up.

Stepping outside is a huge relief, even as the asphalt digs into his bare feet while he fumbles to get shoes on. The air outside the van is cool and fresh, though the nearby roadways and massive trucks are belching fumes across the lot of the truck stop where they parked. Once his boots are on, he sets out across the pavement to the little shop at the gas station.

Yuri walks into the shop and almost closes his eyes in relief. It’s not just being outside and getting away from the van that takes a weight off him, and he knows it—it’s getting space away from Beka too. He slows down deliberately, wandering the aisles even though he’s already sure of what he wants, taking his time. 

It’s no news to Yuri that he’s not easy to live with—his Grandpa let him know more than once, and his mom had clearly hated it enough that she up and left while he was still in diapers—but lately Otabek’s been acting even edgier than normal. He’s secretive, and it’s not easy to keep secrets when you’re up each other’s asses twenty-four hours a day, sometimes literally. They’ve been on the road a month and haven’t had even a hotel night in a week, and Yuri’s to the point where every little thing Beka does makes him want to snap, even when he doesn’t say anything at all.

Finally, Yuri stops wasting time. He grabs a hot, sludgy coffee from the dirty machine by the front counter and a prepackaged pastry that claims to be blueberry-flavored. It’s likely never been within a kilometer of a real blueberry. The clerk at the register barely looks up as Yuri pays in a jumble of coins and a single torn-up paper bill. Yuri doesn’t wait for the guy to finish counting the change before grabbing his items to leave.

As he crosses the parking lot back to the van, Yuri wonders for what must be the tenth time if he’s made a mistake, not in trying for a music career, or in joining a band with Otabek, but maybe _all_ of this—playing together and dating, basically living together half the year or more between studios and shitty van—maybe it’s too much. Maybe there’s a reason most bands that fuck split up. 

It’s just, this sure as hell isn’t what he imagined back when they started.

-

_Two years prior..._

“I can’t believe you took twenty minutes to flat-iron your hair,” Dima growls, towing Yuri behind him by the elbow as they power walk to the venue, dodging scowls from the other pedestrians. “It’s already the straightest thing about you.”

“It could be straighter,” Yuri says. He tries to pull back on Dima’s grip without making it obvious that he’s slowing them both down. Unlike his friend, he doesn’t really want to go to this show. He _hates_ The Kings _and_ their stupid, smug-faced prettyboy frontman. They’re exactly the type of band that Yuri thinks of as a symbol of everything wrong with the music industry. JJ Leroy has two parents and several older siblings already in the business, and that’s the only reason he was topping the charts and touring the world at seventeen. So what if “The Theme” was actually pretty catchy? So what if Yuri finds himself singing it sometimes in the shower, when the house is empty? It’s not like Leroy even wrote it.

Meanwhile, there are much better artists (artists like Yuri) slaving away in obscurity, writing and recording all their own stuff, desperate for even just a tenth of the views on YouTube that The Kings’ next bland-ass hit will achieve.

Yuri shouldn’t have agreed to come, but… Dima had an extra ticket. It was _free_. There are probably a couple hundred teenage girls at Yuri’s school who would literally murder him for the opportunity to be at this show, but they missed out on tickets because it sold out so quickly. 

He’ll admit it: he’s here for the cred.

By the time they arrive at Rock Bottom, the doors have just opened, and the line is slowly shuffling inside, pausing at points for ID and ticket checks, collecting their wristbands or X’s. Yuri takes his black marker X’s with pride. He’s not technically straight-edge—he can’t legally drink yet anyway—but he’s thinking about it, and everyone will ask where he went tomorrow when he shows up in classes with the faded grey outline.

Shows are a rare occasion when Yuri is pleased with his small stature. Dima’s come with him to clubs before and knows the drill by now. As soon as they’re through the door he puts a hand on Yuri’s shoulder and Yuri pulls him through the crowd, slipping through gaps between the assembled bodies where most people couldn’t fit. When he reaches the point where the audience is too tightly packed to move, he stops. 

He can push forward the rest of the way when people start dancing.

“You’re the best person to stand behind at a show,” Dima half-yells over the house music, stooping slightly to rest his chin on the top of Yuri’s head. 

Yuri elbows him in the gut. It’s one thing to use the fact that he’s short to his advantage, but that doesn’t mean he’s cool with Dima commenting on it. The stage lights come on and the crowd screams, even though the only person on stage is a roadie checking connections and levels. Yuri rolls his eyes. _Fans_, another symbol of everything wrong in the music industry. 

Rock Bottom is one of the shittiest little venues in town, which is another part of why Yuri wanted to be here. It’s stark and dirty, with paint-splattered concrete floors and bartenders who look like they’re half asleep. There’s no green room for the artists, just a corner that’s cordoned off with a shower curtain, through which Yuri can see movement already. He hopes to play here someday himself. 

The Kings exploded in popularity only a few dates into this tour. They’d already had a hit, but then they’d dropped a new album and people went crazy. The next time they book a tour, they’ll be playing arenas. Even if he doesn’t like them, Yuri wants to be able to say he saw them _here_.

Another scream from the audience pulls Yuri’s attention back to the stage, and he stops. Although there’s a full set of instruments, only one guy walks out. He’s wearing baggy, faded denim and a white t-shirt with a black leather jacket over it. He looks like he could be another roadie, but he crosses the stage to mess with a laptop set up on one end, then takes a seat at the drum kit. Someone in the crowd hoots, but Yuri can sense that overall the audience is confused. There’s a lot of random chatter and laughing drunks, and then the first bang of a kick drum reverberates through the building, and the room quiets a bit.

The guy lays down a steady, simple beat, but no one else comes out of the artist area, and after a minute he stands and returns to the laptop. With a few clicks, the drum beat starts again, and Yuri sucks in a breath. _Is he going to—?_

He is. He plays bass next, loops that into the track, and then rhythm guitar. He leaves the instrument slung low across his hips as he adds that layer into the others, then returns to center stage, standing before the microphone as he adjusts the tuning on his guitar without looking down.

“What’s up?” he says. His voice is lower than Yuri expected. “I’m Otabek Altin. Thanks for coming.” And with no more banter than that, he starts to play.

It’s fucking _wild_. He gets into the guitar with a vengeance, shredding with his head lowered, bobbing along with the beat as he rips through the song as if no one else is in the room. Yuri can hear chatter resume among the _plebians_ in the crowd as they lose interest, realizing there are no vocals, but Yuri can’t look away.

Otabek takes no notice of the noise in the crowd, throwing himself bodily into the music. As he starts to sweat under the stage lights, his black hair sticks to the sides of his face in thin tendrils, and his t-shirt turns transparent, revealing the fuzzy red, blue, and black outline of a tattoo spread across his chest, but he never pauses, and he never takes off his leather jacket.

When the song ends, there’s some polite clapping and a few howls. Otabek slings the guitar around his back and steps over to the laptop again to adjust something, and Yuri looks over at Dima, who has his phone up, thumbs going rapidfire to text friends who couldn’t make it to the show. 

“He’s pretty good,” Yuri yells at Dima’s ear. “Hot, too.”

Dima turns, tilting his head in confusion. “What?”

“I said this guy is fucking **hot**,” Yuri yells, louder. At the same time, the backing track cuts out. 

_Shit_. Probably not everyone in the room is staring at Yuri now, but it sure as hell feels like it. Raising the hood on his jacket for protection from their burning eyes, Yuri looks back up on the stage.

Otabek is, in fact, staring at him.

_Double shit_.

Their eyes meet for a searing flash, then Otabek turns back to his laptop. He clicks on something, but no new track starts up. Crossing back to center stage, he trades his electric guitar out for an acoustic, then drags a stool up to the microphone, adjusting the height.

“We’re going to do something a little different now,” Otabek murmurs against the mic. When he sits, the jeans Yuri thought were baggy before strain across his thighs. Yuri revises his opinions. “Sorry in advance about my voice. Sing along if you know this one.”

The first chord is familiar, and Yuri’s not sure what he’s expecting—some pop radio hit from three years ago, or a deep track off an old Kings album that the headliner doesn’t play live anymore, maybe. It takes longer than Yuri would like to admit before he identifies the melody and sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth. 

He’s used to this song on piano, not guitar. And he’s used to the notes coming from his own fingers. 

“What’s this supposed to be?” Dima asks, frowning, and Yuri resists the urge to stomp on his toe. He could blame crowd push. Some fucking friend Dima is. 

But Yuri doesn’t have time to kick someone’s ass right now. Every nerve in his body is tuned to the stage, surging with adrenaline for the moment Otabek leans in, pushing his hair back out of his face as his lips nearly touch the mic, his rough voice forming the first words of _Yuri’s_ song.

-

_Present Day_

As Yuri approaches the van, he can see Beka leaning up against the passenger door, and his stomach twists. The sight of his boyfriend standing out in broad daylight, wearing nothing but a pair of unzipped, battered jeans and shaving his face in the rear-view mirror? Definitely the best sort of reminder for why Yuri’s on this adventure with him to begin with.

The fact that Otabek is also one of the most talented musicians Yuri’s ever met doesn’t hurt, but he’s not sure it really stands a chance help up in contrast to the sharp jut of Beka’s hip bones or the snaking path of dark hairs dipping down into the shadows of his jeans.

Otabek pauses his shave long enough to glance over at Yuri, then down at the coffee cup in his hand. The pastry is long gone—it tasted like it never met a blueberry in its short life, and Yuri had crammed the whole thing in his mouth and ditched the wrapper back at the shop—but the coffee is still too hot to drink despite being almost half full of flavored creamer.

“You didn’t get me any.” It’s not a question, but an observation. Yuri had walked over, bought himself a coffee, and hadn’t even considered grabbing anything for Beka. He does feel a bit guilty about that, now that’s it’s being brought up.

“I can go back and get you one. Or you can take mine.” He expects Otabek’s frown before it happens, that’s how goddamn predictable they’ve gotten. Beka barely even drinks coffee, and he sure as hell doesn’t drink the sugary, artificial shit Yuri likes to dump in his. Even though he’s not commenting on it right now, Yuri can sense the judgment in his eyes. He’s tempted to upend the whole cup onto his shoes.

“I’ll get one in a minute.” Beka’s eyes slide back to the mirror as he tilts his chin up, razor tracing the long line of his throat. Yuri wants to chase it with his teeth. They’re not playing the next city until after ten tonight. They’ve got time for diversions. He sips his coffee and winces when it burns the tip of his tongue. 

“Want to hang out here a bit longer?” The question sounds casual enough, maybe. Of course, Beka knows what he means anyway.

“Actually, you might need to get the van ready while I get coffee. We’re supposed to meet someone for lunch.” Shaking the shaving cream from his razor, Otabek pats his face off with a towel, then crawls back into the van.

“Lunch?” Yuri grouses. “With _who_?”

When Otabek hops back out onto the pavement, he’s wearing a tight black t-shirt with a logo on it that might be one of Yuri’s. His jeans are buttoned. It’s the worst part so far of what’s already a shitty day, and to make it worse, Otabek only shrugs in response. 

“Someone,” he says, as he tosses Yuri the van keys, then strolls off toward the shop.

This. This is what Yuri means when he thinks Beka is _weird_ lately. “Someone.” What does that even mean? Yuri curses as he stalks around the van, making sure all their equipment is road-ready. He could be a solo artist by now in an alternate universe. He should have waited a few more weeks, tried the YouTube thing longer. Who knows where he’d be now, on his own?

-

_Two years prior..._

The Kings are _loud_. That’s the best thing Yuri can say about them right now. They’re loud, and they like a lot of bright-colored lights, and their fans definitely know how to scream. It was too much for Yuri to tolerate—the screams, the pushing, the teenage girls practically clawing him in an attempt to get closer to the stage. Dima wasn’t paying attention, as usual, so Yuri ducked out. 

Even from outside, they’re still loud. Hell, he can probably hear the lyrics better from out here, without so much pounding bass.

Yuri drops his shoulders back against the rough brick wall of the venue, leaning. There’s a drunk girl sobbing in the courtyard a few feet away, a couple having a quiet but fierce fight because one of them—he can’t tell which—was apparently staring at JJ Leroy _too much_, and a few bearded roadies smoking cigarettes on his other side. Yuri eyes the roadies, trying to be casual.

“I’ll pay you for a cigarette,” he offers. It’s a trick he learned from Dima’s older brother a few months ago—offer to buy a cigarette and no one will ever accept the money, but they will give you the cigarette. Yuri’s never tried it himself before, but it works like a charm. One of the men passes him a fresh one, then raises his hand, shaking his head when Yuri reaches for his pocket.

Perfect. Now what? 

He’s never actually smoked before. It just felt like the right thing to do here. He pats his pockets, as if searching for a lighter, hoping the guys will offer him one of those too without him having to ask for anything again.

Instead, a hand plucks the cigarette from Yuri’s lips and drops it on the ground. Battered black Doc Martins grind the hapless tube of paper into the pavement. 

“You’ll ruin your voice if you do that,” the guy says, and [Yuri’s not even surprised when he looks up to find Otabek Altin standing in front of him.](https://twitter.com/jahgyong/status/1193221026529923073)

He is pleased, though.

Jamming his hands into his pockets, Yuri slumps harder into the wall, trying not to show it. “Maybe it’ll give me that sexy, rough smoker’s voice.”

“Maybe it’ll give you a breathing tube in your throat.” Otabek extends a hand again, this time for Yuri to take. “I’m Beka.”

“Yuri.” It’s stupid. Otabek would know his name, of course, if he knows his song, but this is the pattern—a hand, a name, another name. There’s almost a new song in that. For a moment, Yuri forgets where he is, his thoughts flying ahead, skipping over the keys on a piano.

“I hope you don’t mind that I played your stuff.” Beka’s voice interrupts him, and Yuri tries to quickly memorize the snatch of melody he had going for a second there. “When I saw you in the crowd, I couldn’t turn down the chance.”

He’s got to be deliberately not mentioning Yuri’s fumble, that scream in the silence—_he’s hot_. Whatever. He’s even hotter up close, with a jawline to die for, and Yuri can feel his own cheeks pinking—more from the embarrassing memory than anything happening right now. 

“It was cool,” Yuri says, as if it wasn’t, in fact, the coolest thing that’s ever happened to him in his life. “I really liked your version. It was different, but—I’ve never heard it like that before. Your whole set was… cool.” He’s not sure what else to say. He’s never heard anyone else cover one of his songs before. He’s not even in the same universe as knowing what to do with this.

One of the roadies mutters something, and another guy chuckles. Yuri shoots them a look, certain he’s the butt of whatever joke they’re telling, but Otabek is still smiling, and he gives the men an upwards nod as they leave. The one who’d laughed claps him on the shoulder as he walks by, hard enough that Otabek sways a little further into Yuri’s space.

“I’ve actually been following your account for a couple years now.” Yuri hopes it’s dark enough in the courtyard that the neon red on his face now won’t show. _A couple years_, oh god. His old stuff is so embarrassing. 

“How?” Yuri blurts. He only cracked triple digits on subscribers in the last few months. Two years ago he would have had like… a dozen, mostly friends from school giving him pity likes. 

Otabek shrugs and shoos away a moth fluttering too close to his head, pulled in by the outdoor lights. “I follow a lot of different musicians. Watched a few one day, and then one of yours came up in my suggestions. The preview was this little shot of your face and—I don’t know—something in your eyes just pulled me in.”

_My eyes?_ Yuri has no idea what to do with any of this. He’s tempted to pinch himself, but that might attract attention. 

“‘Lightning’ is my favorite,” Otabek says, and it takes Yuri a second to realize he’s shortening the title for _Lightning Can’t Strike Trees That Have Already Burned_, the song he’d just played on stage. No one’s ever liked it enough to give it a nickname before. “But I really love ‘Interminable’, too. I just haven’t gotten that cover quite right yet.”

“Uh-huh,” Yuri says, because he has to answer. His brain is still rebooting. “That’s… _awesome_.” Maybe that’s too enthusiastic. Was it too much? He checks Beka’s expression, but it’s the same earnest look as before, with those bright amber eyes and the slightest hint of an easy smile. _Shit_. Yuri needs to get famous fast so he can hire someone to handle these social things for him.

“Have you started playing live yet, or still just YouTube stuff?”

Yuri shakes his head. “Just online. I’m only one guy with a piano. I don’t even have a portable keyboard,” he admits, wincing. His upright is ancient, practically welded to his grandpa’s living room floor. If Yuri tried to move it, it might disintegrate. “I was kind of waiting to play live, until I have more of a band to get on stage with me.” 

“Well,” Otabek says. His eyes flash copper as he leans in, propping himself on the wall with one hand above Yuri’s shoulder. “I’m a band.”

So he is.

-

_Present Day_

Yuri spots him the moment they walk into the diner. He’d know that douchey hair cut anywhere, and _especially_ when it’s bent forward, signing a napkin with an overblown flourish for a very flustered young waitress. JJ flashes his hand sign, leaning in to pose for a selfie with his usual cocky grin, and Yuri turns on his heel. 

Beka grabs him by the shoulder before he can escape back out to the van. “I know,” he says. “I _know_ it’s annoying, but it’s just a quick lunch.”

“It is quick. I’ve already been here long enough.” 

Beka’s grip on his shoulder doesn’t soften a bit, but his voice does. Whispering, he asks, “Please?”

Yuri slumps. Damn it. It’s no wonder Beka didn’t tell him who they were meeting earlier. He knows Yuri can’t stand JJ, but _somehow_, he and Otabek are friends. It Yuri refuses to let Beka see one of his friends, that would definitely make Yuri the asshole here, even if that friend is JJ.

“Fine,” Yuri sighs and turns, allowing Beka to nudge him into the diner. In the corner booth, JJ straightens up, spotting them. “But I’m leaving the moment he tries to call me—”

“Kitten!” JJ exclaims, and Yuri winces. He flushes to the tips of his ears, red with shame and rage as half the restaurant turns to see what’s going on. “You made it after all!” 

Beka’s grip on Yuri tightens again. “Just a quick lunch,” he says again, leaning toward Yuri’s ear. As if sensing that’s no longer good enough, he adds, “JJ’s paying.”

Yuri had assumed he would be. He’s a fucking trust fund kid, after all, but it’s still a good reminder. Yuri may have finished his big growth spurt, but at eighteen he is still a teenage boy. His stomach is a black hole, and he’s already salivating at the smells of grilled onions and charred beef leaking from the kitchen. 

The food better be worth it.

Yuri slides into the booth as JJ and Otabek engage in some sort of chest-thumping, not-quite-touching bro hug ritual. It’s almost enough to put him off his food. No, that’s an exaggeration. It would take a lot more than a gross hug to stop Yuri from eating half the menu. By the time they separate, Yuri’s already cased the menu, and he takes advantage of the waitress’s attention to JJ by putting in an order right away—a cheeseburger topped with an egg, fries _and_ onion rings, a coke, and a chocolate peanut butter milkshake. That’s just to start with. Already he’s thinking he can probably get a couple grilled cheese to-go at the end.

“I’ll have a cobb salad,” JJ says, flashing that cheesy grin again, “and a side salad for my little friend, who needs to eat a vegetable.”

“Onion rings are a vegetable,” Yuri says, “and there are pickles on the burger.”

“Pickles aren’t a _vegetable_!”

“They are. Cucumbers.”

Yuri and JJ both turn to Beka, betting on him to break the tie. Otabek taps the table with his silverware, considering for a moment. “They are cucumbers—” he starts.

“HA!” Yuri cuts him off, leveling his fork at JJ. “Beka says I win.”

“—but I’m not sure they count as a vegetable,” Otabek says, finishing his thought.

Now it’s JJ’s turn to crow. “That’s right! Pickles are _not_ a vegetable. Betrayed by your own lover.”

Yuri wrinkles his nose. The sound of JJ referring to Beka as _your lover_ has actually turned his stomach. JJ probably says “make love” too. He’s so gross. Yuri shudders, trying to block out the thought of JJ in anything even approaching a sexual context. 

“Do you remember that girl on tour who brought us a whole box of oranges because she thought we’d get scurvy?” JJ asks. He’s talking to Otabek, of course. They’ve toured together before, more than once even. 

It’s the beginning of how these meet-ups always go, and Yuri stretches out, pillowing his head in the crook of his arm on top of the cool plastic surface of the table. He listens with only half an ear as the two launch into another discussion of shit that Yuri knows nothing about, all of which happened before Yuri and Otabek ever met. It’s fucking _thrilling_ for him.

There’s a brief detour off Shitty Memory Lane when the waitress returns with their orders and they get caught up in the chaos of arranging plates, then those first blissful moments of silence where JJ is eating and Yuri gets to digest his burger in peace. It’s too brief, though, before JJ looks up, gesturing for emphasis with a bit of salad stuck on his fork, dressing dripping from the tines as it swings back and forth.

“You know what I was thinking about the other day?” he begins, and Yuri considers stuffing two french fries in his ears to block it out. Otabek shoots him a glance, like he knows what Yuri’s thinking already. “Watermelons.”

Otabek snorts—_snorts_! As if the word “watermelons” is fucking funny, and Yuri can’t take it. If it’s possible to angrily eat a salad, then Yuri is about to become the world champion of frustrated salad-eaters.

He puts away most of what he ordered, using the sound of his own teeth grinding to drown out as much of JJ’s voice as possible. Their waitress is very attentive, fluttering around JJ like she thinks this is the first chapter of a Wattpad fanfic in which he proposes to her at the end of lunch. The constant, unnecessary drink refills add up, and Yuri has to excuse himself to the bathroom. The waitress looks like she might take his seat while he’s gone. He hopes she does.

If Yuri takes a little more care than usual washing his hands, who could blame him? He’s interested in the last couple fries still on his plate, but aside from that, he doesn’t have much motivation to go back to that table. But once his hands are dry, he hasn’t got any excuses left. He shoulders out of the bathroom and into the little hallway at the back of the diner. Their table isn’t far from the hall, so from the door he can already hear that loudmouth blaring his thoughts for the whole world to hear. 

“You mean you _still_ haven’t told Yuri?” JJ exclaims, and Yuri freezes in the hall, stopping so fast that the soles of his shoes squeak against the linoleum. “What are you waiting for?”

“Right time,” Otabek says. Yuri has to strain to hear him, since his voice is lower and he doesn’t project as much as JJ, so he misses words here and there. “ -- know Yuri -- wait.”

“It’s your funeral.” JJ sounds dubious. “But you can’t put it off much longer.”

Yuri’s debating between popping out there now or stayinging hidden, lingering to see if they let something else slip, but then their waitress rounds the corner and nearly collides with him, ruining his hiding spot.

When he slinks out, Otabek looks up from the table and gives him the ghost of a smile. Yuri can’t bring himself to give anything back. He drops into his seat. His plate’s been taken, and with it, his last fries.

“You were in there _forever_,” JJ exclaims. “I thought you drowned in the toilet.”

“Fuck off,” Yuri mutters, half-hearted. JJ’s a bastard and his fries are gone, but Yuri’s also pretty sure Otabek is planning on leaving him. On the list of problems he has today, that last one just skyrocketed to the top.

Yuri loiters by the door with his hands jammed in his pockets while JJ pays the bill and signs way more receipts that necessary for the kitchen staff’s “daughters”. Beka and JJ do another of those awkward half-hugs with a fist bump to say goodbye. JJ turns toward Yuri after, and Yuri takes that as his cue to clamber into the passenger seat of the van, keeping the white metal door and window as a last-ditch barrier between himself and the douchebag.

“See you soon, Kitten,” JJ says sweetly, wiggling his fingers. He blows a kiss, and Yuri slouches down in the seat to avoid it.

Beka hops into the driver’s seat and starts the van, and then they’re back on the road to their next stop. Yuri can see Otabek throwing him little glances at the stop lights, frowning faintly, and Yuri pops in his earbuds, cranking the volume up enough for the song to be audible across the gulf between their bucket seats. Beka can’t give him bad news if Yuri can’t hear him talking.

It works for most of an hour. They’re halfway to the next stop when Otabek leans over at a light, gently tugging the chord of Yuri’s headphones to signal he wants to talk. Yuri holds up a finger, buying time while he finishes a level on his mobile game. Once he dies, he takes out one of his ears. 

“You want to switch?” he asks. He knows full well that’s not it—for one thing, Otabek hardly ever lets Yuri drive. His words to describe the experience are usually synonyms of “terrifying”.

“No.” Otabek’s hands are white-knuckled on the wheel, at a firm ten and two. That’s not right. “I had a couple questions about tonight, though. Did you make any arrangements for us to gig?”

“You know the calendar better than I do.” Yuri’s suspicions are thick and sour on his tongue. “I’d tell you if I changed something.”

“Right.”

“We can try for a quick ninja gig somewhere, maybe get enough tips for a hotel room.” That’s not likely, but it would be ideal. Yuri would murder for a hotel night—like, literally kill a man. If they play a ninja gig, his dream might even come true, too, given how locals can sometimes react to surprise music on their street. “Why?”

“Well…” Otabek is normally a pretty slow talker, a man of few words, but he’s taking his time today even by his own standards. “You know, The Kings are playing tonight too.”

Yuri snorts, propping his face against the window and closing his eyes as the sun-warmed glass heats his cheek. “Don’t remind me. That asshole’s probably going to be drinking champagne in a penthouse suite while we’re dirty spooning in the back of the van on a bed of cheeseburger wrappers—again.”

“The thing is, Pointeplay’s been opening for them this tour, and they’ve got the night off.” Yuri has a sinking feeling about where this is going now. “I may have told JJ that we’d be… available to open.”

“What the fuck?” The question erupts from Yuri’s lips. He drops his phone into his lap and pulls out his other earbud, turning to sit cross-legged and facing Beka, his seatbelt straining to hold him back. “When did I get kicked out of the band? Because last I checked I’m half of this operation, and I get to have a say in what shows we play.” 

Otabek’s eyes don’t leave the road. His throat bobs, his hands white-knuckled on the wheel. “Look, I know how you feel about JJ—_I know_, he’s an asshole, but The Kings are still big time. Opening up for them is a good opportunity. It could be the break we need.”

“You already opened for him and it didn’t do shit for you,” Yuri spits. As soon as he says it, he regrets it. The words hang in the air between them, then shoot back to settle like lead in Yuri’s gut. 

“Didn’t it?” Beka asks, shooting him a glance. His expression is unreadable. Yuri turns back to the windshield, pulling his knees up under his chin and hugging his legs.

The van is quiet aside from the hum of wheels on pavement and the rush of air battering the cracks in the back passenger window.

Finally, Yuri breaks the silence. “I guess it’s too late to cancel now anyway,” Yuri mutters, “that was the point in waiting to tell me, right? Whatever. We’ll do it, I guess.” If Otabek responds, Yuri doesn’t hear him. He’s already got his headphones back in. 

Gerard Way is screaming in his ears, _I’m not okay_, and Yuri probably shouldn’t feel that so much right now. Otabek’s not leaving him, at least not today. He ought to feel relieved. Instead, he can’t stop wondering, _what now?_

-

_Two years prior..._

“Are you _sure_ this is safe?” Yuri eyes the tangle of cords and power strips resting on the concrete with distrust. 

“Rock and roll isn’t safe.” Otabek sounds nonplussed, but Yuri’s starting to know him a bit better. He can tell when he’s being fucked with. Maybe.

“Sure, but my grandpa’s not going to appreciate it if we burn the house down.”

It’s the first time they’ve really practiced this thing, whatever it is. They haven’t even come up with an official name yet, though Yuri has a long list of ideas he’s been scratching on the back of a notebook for years. He hasn’t given the list to Otabek yet. Some of the names, from his vampire phase, are too embarrassing for human consumption. 

Since the show, they’ve met up a few times, jamming some new songs in Yuri’s cramped living room—him, at the ancient piano, and Otabek on the sofa with a guitar and his laptop—but this is the first time they’re practicing for _real_. Otabek even managed to get a portable keyboard for Yuri from a friend of a cousin or something. It’s the shitty kind with flat keys and a wobbly stand, but it’s mobile and it doesn’t need a professional to keep it in tune. 

Yuri perches himself on the edge of a fold-out lawn chair behind it, and Beka picks up his guitar. His laptop is next to him on a card table, pre-loaded with some simple drum and bass tracks, and his finger hovers over the mouse as he cocks an eyebrow at Yuri.

“Ready to do this?”

If he had to be honest, Yuri would say no. Even with no one else here, there’s a sickening flutter in his gut. Otabek is awesome—cool, calm, a badass musician. He’s everything Yuri could have hoped for in a bandmate, but Yuri _sucks_ at people. He’s been driving everyone out of his life since before he could even speak. What if he can’t handle having a partner? What if he goes down in flames, and he takes Otabek with him?

But no one is pouring truth serum down Yuri’s throat, so he doesn’t say any of that. He settles his mouth in a firm line and nods at Beka to start the track. 

It's not perfect. They don't enter at the same time, and for a moment, they clash. Yuri's tempted to throw hands at the keyboard and start over, but just as he's ready to call it, it starts _working_—the guitar and piano sync over the track, and a melody comes together in time for Yuri's vocal entrance. For the first time, he sings, and he hears Beka's voice just beneath his own—support, harmony, all that brilliant shit he couldn't do alone in his living room with a wobbly camera and a piano that's been in his family since the stone age.

For the first time, Yuri doesn't just think this is going to work in the way of teenagers, dreaming of a future they'll never touch at one AM under the influence of friends and too many sodas. He _knows_ it's going to work. They're going to be fucking famous. 

Yuri's mouth splits in a grin, and he drops his head toward the piano keys, hiding his expression behind a curtain of hair as he pushes his focus back to the song. 

The final notes are still ringing around them as Yuri leaps to his feet, chair crashing onto the floor behind him. He punches the air with a hissed _Yes_.

Otabek is staring, his expression open and quiet. If Yuri's grin is fierce, Beka's eyes are _ wondering_, swirls of gold and bronze in the brown, and Yuri's certain he can feel the energy too. Seized by it, he leaps at Otabek, and isn’t surprised when Beka’s there, ready to catch him.

He _is_ surprised when Otabek kisses him.

It’s a moment, brief, closed lips in a little peck, but it leaves Yuri blinking, stunned. It’s a bad fucking idea. “Don’t date your bandmates” isn’t just a golden rule, it’s certified platinum, but Yuri’s young, dumb, and in a band; he’s full of fire and bad decisions. He’s got one hand on Beka’s cheek and the other on the back of his head as he yanks him down for a lot more than a tight-lipped peck. 

This is different. _They’re_ different. And soon, the whole world is going to know it.

-

_Present Day_

Yuri’s dreamed of playing a sold out stadium for half his life. In the fantasy, it’s not so different from this—one night, he’s playing dingy clubs and back patios, and the next they’ve been discovered. He’s standing on stage in front of an arena full of screaming fans. In the daydream, the crowd is faceless but adoring. In reality, they’re a milling mass of thousands of individual people, each with two eyes, all of which are about to be watching _him_.

His grip on the rigging poles backstage tightens, along with his gut. In a few minutes, Yuri and Otabek will be on that stage—the two of them alone, like ants at the center of a buffet table. It’s too much to even imagine. 

Hearing laughter, Yuri glances away from the crowd, back over his shoulder. Otabek is sitting perched atop an old speaker almost as tall as he is, his legs dangling over the side. JJ is leaning up next to him, and a few other members of The Kings are gathered around, along with some crew. 

JJ is holding court, as usual, talking with his hands with expansive gestures. He reaches up to Otabek and squeezes his leg, just above the knee, and Yuri sees red, then green at the easy way JJ touches Otabek—and the way Beka _lets_ him.

Some fraction of the conflict burning in Yuri’s chest must make it to his eyes, because JJ glances over at him and his smirk stretches. “Be careful there, Kitten,” he drawls. “If you lose all your fur back stage, none of the little girls will want to take you home.”

Yuri hears laughter and turns his back to them, ears burning red. He’d rather not know if Otabek is among those mocking him. No matter what Beka says, it sure doesn’t seem like JJ invited them here because he wanted to help—no, it feels more like he wanted Yuri here for his own entertainment, his own personal punching bag.

Whatever. It’s fitting, with the week Yuri’s having. His boyfriend is keeping secrets. He’s probably leaving Yuri—_for JJ_, whispers a stupid little voice, and Yuri doesn’t really believe that, but fuck it, why not? And now they have to play this stupid giant show Yuri never wanted. The crowd is expecting Pointeplay, not Puma Tiger Scorpion. They’re going to crash and burn out there, and then JJ is going to make another snide remark, and then Yuri will be crushed under the weight of a thousand teenage girls seeking revenge after he punches JJ right in his smarmy face. 

This, Yuri realizes, is how his music career _dies_.

Someone taps him on the shoulder, and Yuri turns to see one of the bearded crewmen. The guy nods to the stage. “You guys are on in five.”

“Thanks.” Over his shoulder, Yuri’s eyes connect with Otabek’s. JJ is still chattering with the rest of this band, but Yuri doesn’t bother to listen to the words. Beka’s watching him, hands on his knees, expression solemn. 

So, they both know it’s ending, then. 

Yuri’s Converse feel like they’re made of concrete when the time comes to take the stage. The audience cheers as they emerge, but Yuri knows it isn’t really for them. People are just glad to see the show is starting; they’d be just as excited to see Barney the Purple Dinosaur right now. 

The keyboard on stage belongs to The Kings, and the cool white keys are unfamiliar beneath Yuri’s fingertips as he settles in. It’s a much nicer setup than his—or, it’s a much more expensive setup, at least. He’d kill for a keyboard like this normally, but at the moment, he finds himself missing the worn wooden piano bench at his grandfather’s house. He glances over at Otabek and nods, signaling him to start the first track. 

Beka looks confused at first. He was probably expecting Yuri to say something to the crowd, introduce their band or something, but what would be the point? They’re just a warm-up act for _JJ_. When Otabek leaves, maybe he can get a gig playing with The Kings, since they get along so goddamn well.

_Shit_. The track starts when Yuri’s not paying attention. He scrambles to catch where to come back in. All of their songs are built around the piano as a major element, so it sounds like crap if Yuri’s not on point, but the keys beneath his hands are weightier than the ones he’s used to, and more sensitive.

By the second chorus, he wants to kick over the keyboard stand and leave. He’s playing the piano like it’s a percussion instrument, pounding the keys with more force than they need or deserve. The levels on his monitors look like garbage, and it can’t possibly sound good to the audience either. 

Yuri glances over at Otabek, expecting to see a scowl or worse, a look of glazed boredom, the surefire sign of a musician phoning it in, hitting the notes on autopilot. 

What he sees instead catches his breath in his throat and throws off his rhythm on the keys. Beka is in the _zone_—eyes closed and head thrown back. It’s not the look of someone who has any worries about the performance, or doubts in the relationship. Otabek isn’t over there second-guessing his fingers or slyly watching Yuri to see if he’s paying attention; he’s giving the music everything he has.

He’s gorgeous.

And Yuri is a fucking idiot. Maybe he’s not totally off base here. Maybe Beka _does_ want to leave, but if so, who could blame him? Yuri’s the one who’s ben acting like an ass about all this. They’re playing an _arena_, in front of a sold out crowd, even though they’ve barely got an EP out. Otabek plays five instruments, and he could get steady work as a studio musician anywhere in the world. 

Instead, he’s with Yuri, living in the back of a van and showering in truck stops and eating food that comes from a series of small plastic pouches every day. He got them this gig—this opportunity—and Yuri’s ruining it because of what? JJ Leroy’s stupid, punchable face? 

Yuri’s not going to let that happen. He stops staring across the stage, puts his head down, and comes back at the song with focus. If Beka’s ready to put his body and soul both on the line for this show, then so is Yuri, and if they go down, then they’ll go down together.

As the final piano notes fade, Yuri glances down at their set list, trying to remember what they put next. When he sees the word, his heart flutters. Right. Grabbing his microphone, he stands up, pushing away from the keyboard, and crosses to center stage. 

“Rubicon” is one of _their_ songs, not one of Beka’s that Yuri added lyrics to, or one of Yuri’s that Otabek wanted to cover. They wrote it together, as a way to get Yuri out from behind the piano and down to the front of the stage.

Standing there now, with the mic clutched in his hand, waiting his cue as the first few chords ring out, Yuri looks into the audience and sees—eyes. It’s not everyone, it’s not even _most_ of them, but they have some people’s attention. They could, really, make this work. 

When Yuri sings, he watches the crowd, scanning the faces spread out below. People stop talking. A girl who had her back to the stage before turns to look, and then she smiles, nodding along with the beat. A boy near the front takes his girlfriend’s hand and, beaming, she dances with him. 

As they move into the first chorus, Beka’s voice joins Yuri’s, coming in on the monitors right on cue. They harmonize, overlap and contrast. To Yuri’s ear, it sounds perfect—even better than it had in practice. Yuri glances back over his shoulder, and his eyes meet Otabek’s. In the moment, Beka smiles.

This gig, this band, this relationship—it’s never been a mistake. No, this is perfect. It’s everything Yuri’s ever wanted, and a lot of shit he never even realized he could have. He’s here for the moments the music works and the moments it doesn’t, mornings he wakes up on cool hotel sheets and days in the van, sweating on top of a pile of old flannel. This—_all_ of it—it’s the only way he ever wants to live. 

As “Rubicon” ends, Yuri takes a few steps back. When Otabek looks up from his guitar, the beginnings of a confused frown gathering between his eyes because Yuri’s not on script, Yuri grabs the collar of his ratty v-neck and yanks him into a kiss.

It’s more teeth than lips, too hasty, too rushed, but the crowd fucking loses it. Yuri can hear them screaming at his back as he rests his forehead against Beka’s briefly, breathing _Thank you_ to Beka and anything else that might be listening.

Even when he turns his face back to the audience, he never takes his eyes off Otabek. Slinging an arm over his boyfriend’s shoulders, Yuri brings the microphone back to his lips.

“Hello out there,” he calls to the crowd, and screams echo back. Yuri grins, relishing the response almost as much as the curve of Otabek’s mouth. “We’re Puma Tiger Scorpion, and this next song is called ‘Interminable’. You know what that means? It means _forever_.”


End file.
